Blue Gold

by Clive Cussler

  “He called himself Martin, but that’s not his real name. I don’t know what it is.”

  “Why was he trying to kill you—I mean, both of us?”

  “He didn’t really know. He was like one of those trick bombs the Germans used to drop. They’d go off when the bomb squad tried to defuse them. By the way, I thought you were going to wait in the car.”

  “I tried, but I had to get out and walk. I went behind the house, didn’t see anybody, so I came into the barn looking for you.”

  “I’m glad you did.” Austin cocked his ear. “I think I hear something.” He took a last look at the body. “Happy retirement, Bucky,” he said, and walked toward the door.

  Buzz followed him out into the yard as a black-and-white car with blue roof dome flashing burst from the woods and squealed to a stop in a cloud of dust. Printed in big letters on the car door was the word SHERIFF. Two men in blue uniforms got out. One was burly and young, and the other was slim and gray-haired. The younger man came over with his hand on his holster. His badge signified he was a deputy sheriff.

  “Which one of you is Austin?” he said.

  “That’s me,” Kurt said.

  The deputy must have been prepared for an evasion because he didn’t seem to know what to say next.

  The older man gently pushed his deputy aside. “I’m Sheriff Hastings. Either one of you seen Bucky Martin?”

  “He’s in the barn,” Austin said.

  The deputy hustled into the barn, and when he came out a moment later his face was white.

  “Jeezus,” he said, fumbling for his sidearm, “Old Bucky is dead. Stuck with a pitchfork. Which one of you two did it?”

  Hastings gestured for his deputy to calm down and call the county homicide team. “Could you tell me what’s been going on, Mr. Austin?”

  “Martin tried to kill us with that shotgun next to the body. I had to kill him. I was trying to slow him down, but that’s not the way it worked out.”

  “Thanks, but I mean what’s really going on with this whole thing, me getting calls from Washington and all.”

  “Washington?”

  “You bet. First the governor’s office calls and tells me to hold, then they patch through this maniac Admiral Sandecker. He says his man Austin is in danger and I’d better get out to Martin’s place or there will be a killing. When I asked what makes him think somebody’s going to be killed, he promises to rip me a new belly button if I don’t stop asking dumb questions and get on my way.” He grinned. “Guess he was right.” He turned to Buzz. “What’s your name?”

  “Buzz Martin.”

  The sheriff blinked in surprise. “Any relation to the deceased?”

  Austin and Martin looked at each other, not sure how to answer the question.

  Finally Austin shook his head and said, “Hope you’ve got time, sheriff, because that’s a long, long story.”

  25

  THE DRUMS HAD BEEN beating steadily for an hour. The sound was cadenced at first, coming from a lone drum at the same throbbing tempo as a human heartbeat. Then other drums had joined in. The hollow thumping accelerated in pace, and a monotonous chanting could be heard in the background. Francesca paced back and forth in the throne room like a caged lion, her hands clasped behind her, head bent low in thought. The Trouts sat next to the throne, waiting patiently for Francesca to speak. Tessa had pulled her vanishing act again.

  Something caused a commotion at the entrance. Seconds later Francesca’s two handmaidens rushed into the throne room, threw themselves on their knees, and babbled excitedly. Calming the young Indians with her soft voice, Francesca gently lifted them to their feet and brushed their disheveled hair away from their faces. She listened to the women speak in turn, then took two bracelets made of airplane parts and slipped them onto their wrists. She kissed her attendants on the tops of their heads and sent them on their way.

  Turning to the Trouts, Francesca said, “Events are moving faster than I anticipated. The women say Alaric has talked the tribe into moving against us.”

  Gamay frowned. “I thought they wouldn’t enter your palace.”

  “I’ve always said Alaric was intelligent. He sent my servants to tell me his plans, evidently to exert psychological pressure. The drums are his work.” She pointed to the ceiling. “The palace walls are clay, but the roof is made of dry grass. They will light the place on fire. He says the true gods will rise from the ashes. If we run outside to escape the flames it will prove that we’re the frauds he says we are, and they will cut us down.”

  “Would they really harm their queen?” Gamay asked.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time royalty has fallen fatally out of favor. Have you forgotten Mary Queen of Scots or Anne Boleyn?”

  “I get your point,” Gamay said. “What do we do now?”

  “We escape. Are you ready?”

  “Since all we have are the clothes on our backs, we’re ready when you are,” Paul said. “But how are we going to get past that unruly crowd out there?”

  “I still have a few white goddess tricks up my sleeve. Ah, good, Tessa is back.” The Indian woman had materialized as silently as a shadow. She spoke a few words in her native language to Francesca, who answered with a nod. Tessa took one of the torches flanking the throne.

  Francesca said, “Dr. Paul, if you would be so kind as to help Tessa.” Trout went over and hoisted Tessa up by the waist. She was as light as a feather. Tessa tucked the torch in at an angle where the clay met the thatch. The torch had only to burn a few inches before the flame touched the ceiling. They repeated the procedure with another torch on the opposite wall.

  “I don’t count arson among my talents, but this crude time delay will create a distraction when we need it,” Francesca said. She looked around the throne room. “Good-bye,” she said sadly to no one in particular. “In some ways I’ll miss being a queen.” She turned to Tessa, and they talked heatedly. When the discussion was ended Tessa had a satisfied look on her face. Francesca sighed heavily. “You see what’s happening? My subjects are already rebelling. I ordered Tessa to stay, but she wants to go with us. We don’t have time to argue further. Follow me.”

  Francesca led the way along the dim passageways to her bedroom. The two woven bags on the bed explained Tessa’s temporary absence. She had been packing for their escape. Francesca removed her battered aluminum suitcase from the wooden chest. It had been rigged with a strap which she threw over her shoulder. Handing one bag to Paul and the other to Gamay, Francesca said that the containers held food and supplies and “a few essentials.”

  Gamay looked around the windowless room. “Where do we go from here?” The sound of drums was muffled, but the beating was more frenetic.

  “We take a shower, of course,” Francesca said.

  She lit a small clay lamp from the torch, went over to the shower stall, and pulled up the polished wooden floor to reveal a rectangular opening.

  “There’s a ladder. It’s very steep. Be careful.”

  She descended first so the others could climb down by lamplight. They were crowded together in a small space, standing on the gravel drain that had been used to catch water from the shower. A passage led off into the darkness.

  “My apologies to you, Dr. Paul. I wasn’t expecting someone as tall. We’ve been digging this tunnel for years, carrying the dirt out in small amounts and secretly disposing of it. This passageway runs into a covered trench I had the men build years ago for future waterworks.”

  With Paul stooping low to keep from bumping his head, they half walked, half crawled along the passageway. The floor and walls had been smoothed, and evenly spaced beams supported the ceiling. Francesca extinguished the light because of the smoke in the tight confines, and they traveled in darkness. After about fifty feet the tunnel angled into another, slightly bigger passageway.

  “This is the water works,” Francesca said in hushed tones. “We must be silent. The tunnel is only a couple of feet below ground, and the Chulo have sharp
ears.”

  Using a primitive fire starter similar to the one carried by Tessa’s half-brother, Francesca got the lamp going again and they forged ahead. They made slow progress, but after about fifteen minutes the tunnel came to an end. Francesca motioned for Paul to squeeze up beside her. She pulled a small spade from her bag and chopped away at the blank dirt wall until the blade hit something with a thud.

  “I’ll need your strength again, Dr. Paul. Push against this hatch. I don’t think anyone is at the river, but be cautious.”

  She backed off to give Paul more room. He put his shoulder against the wood, braced himself, and shoved, gradually increasing the pressure until he felt the wood give. He pushed harder. The circular cover opened a few inches. Paul peered through the narrow space with one eye and saw water. With a final shove he popped the hatch off.

  The opening was in the side of a grassy embankment. He slithered through the hole, then helped the others climb out. Moving from the cool, dark tunnel into the hot sunlight was a shock, and they blinked their eyes like moles. Paul replaced the hatch. While the others covered the opening he slid on his stomach to the top of the bank and peered over the edge.

  The stockade fence and its grim decorations were a short distance away. The tunnel had passed right under it. A tall, billowing plume of black smoke rose from beyond the fence. What sounded like a flock of wild birds could be heard. As he listened the bird cries became human voices. He slid back down.

  “It looks like they’re having a queenie roast,” he announced with a grin. Turning to Francesca, he added, “Don’t ever tell me you don’t have a talent for arson.”

  Francesca responded by motioning for the others to follow her along the edge of the river. They stayed low, hidden by the embankment, and after a few minutes came upon a dozen dugout canoes. They hauled two dugouts aside. Trout thought of scuttling the others, but their hulls were thick and not easily damaged.

  “Anybody got a power saw?” he said. “Even a hatchet would do.”

  Francesca reached into her sack and came out with a covered pot. Using a flat stone from the riverbed, she smeared the blackish yellow contents of the pot onto the other canoes. She lit the substance on fire. The wood flared into smoldering flames where she had daubed the unctuous mess.

  “Greek fire,” she said. “It’s a combination of resin from local trees. It will burn hotter than napalm. If someone tries to put it out with water, it only makes the fire spread.”

  The Trouts looked on with wonder as the flames began to eat through the hulls. They knew the sabotage would help, but once the natives had discovered their scuttled craft, they could race along the well-maintained pathway that bordered the river.

  They paired the stronger paddlers with weaker ones. Gamay and Francesca got in one craft. Paul and Tessa took the other. They shoved off into the river and paddled for their lives. After an hour they pulled over to the shore for a drink of water and five minutes of rest, then set off again. The paddles raised blisters on their palms as they pushed the canoes against the river current. Francesca passed around a medicinal ointment from her amazing bag, and it numbed the pain in their hands. They kept on, trying to put as many miles between them and the village as possible before daylight failed.

  Darkness came all too soon. Travel on the river became difficult, then impossible. The canoes became tangled in thick grass or ran aground on sandbars. They were quickly exhausting themselves and getting nowhere. They gave up and paddled closer to shore, where they dined on jerky and dried fruit. They tried unsuccessfully to sleep, but the dugouts served poorly as beds, and they were happy to see the gray light of morning.

  With bleary eyes and stiff joints they set off again. The sound of drums spurred them on and made them set aside their aches and pains. The ominous drumming seemed to come from everywhere and echoed through the forest.

  The canoes glided through the curtain of mist rising off the river. The smokescreen hid them from Chulo eyes, but they had to move slowly to avoid obstacles. As the sun rose it baked the mists off to a translucent haze. With the river ahead once more visible they paddled furiously until the sound of drums faded. They kept moving for another hour, not daring to stop. Before long they began to hear a different sound.

  Gamay cocked her ear. “Listen,” she said.

  From a distance came a low roar, as if a train were speeding through the forest.

  Francesca, whose serious expression had not changed since they left the village, ventured a slight smile. “The Hand of God beckons.”

  With spirits renewed, they forgot they were tired and hungry and that their buttocks were numb and dug their paddles in once more. The roar grew louder, but it didn’t obliterate another sound, a quick whirr as if a river bird had taken flight, followed by a solid tunk.

  Paul looked down in disbelief. A three-foot-long arrow was embedded in the side of his canoe. A few inches higher and it would have pierced his rib cage. He looked toward the shore. Flashes of blue-and-white–painted bodies could be seen darting between the trees. The ululating war cry filled the air.

  “We’re being attacked!” Paul yelled unnecessarily.

  Spurred by the arrows chunking into the water around them, Gamay and Francesca were bent low over their paddles. The canoes shot forward out of range.

  Their pursuers had quickly caught up, making good time following the path along the river. At one point the trail turned inland to cut through the forest. The natives had to fight their way through thick growth to get a clear shot at the canoes. They made several attempts. Each time the canoes passed beyond the range of their arrows. Even the high-tech weapons Francesca helped forge had their limitations.

  It was obvious that the cat-and-mouse game soon would turn in favor of the hunters. The paddlers were bone-weary. They were missing strokes and no longer paddled in a unified rhythm. When it seemed they could go no farther, they were out of the river and onto the lake. They paused for a minute to reconnoiter and to firm up their plan. They would cross the open expanse as quickly as possible, aiming for the outlet to the main river. The impenetrable forest growth along the river would protect them from Chulo arrows.

  Heartened by the straightforward scheme, they paddled with renewed vigor, staying midway between the shore and the falls. The thunder of thousands of tons of water plummeting from the five cascades was unimaginable. The canoeists could barely see each other in the fine mist that was thrown up at the base of the falls. Paul vowed to tell Gamay that he had changed his mind about building a hotel there. They came out of the mist cloud into the open lake. Four pairs of eyes scanned the dense forest looking for the outlet.

  Gamay, who was in the lead canoe, pointed with her paddle toward the shore. “I see it over there, where the tree line is broken. Oh, hell—”

  They all saw the source of Gamay’s agitation: the flicker of blue and white as three canoes had come out of the river.

  “It’s a hunting party,” Francesca said, squinting against the sun’s reflection. “They’ve been away and won’t know we’re escaping. I’m still their queen as far as they know. I’ll try to bluff my way. Head right at them.”

  Gamay and Paul put their misgivings aside and kept the dugouts pointed toward the newcomers. The men in the oncoming canoes showed no sign of hostility, and a couple of them even waved. There was shouting from shore. Alaric and his men had burst from the forest. They were calling and beckoning to the hunting party. The canoes hesitated, then, as the yelling grew louder, they pointed the dugouts toward land. The craft had barely touched shore when the hunters were ejected and the chase party took their place.

  Their prey had taken advantage of the slight pause and paddled madly for the river, but their pursuers quickly cut down the angle.

  “We can’t make it to the river!” Gamay yelled. “They’ll cut us off.”

  “Maybe we can lose them in the mists,” Paul replied.

  Gamay spun the dugout around and pointed the bow toward the falls. Paul and Tessa were rig
ht behind. The water became choppy as they neared the falls. The Indians doggedly kept in pursuit. With their strength and skill they were rapidly closing the gap. The falls loomed closer and the mists enveloped them, but it became apparent that they would be pounded to pieces by the falls if they got closer to the torrents.

  Paul shouted over the roar. “Francesca, we need help from your bag of tricks.”

  Francesca shook her head.

  Tessa picked up on Paul’s frantic plea. “I have something,” she said. She handed over the sack that had rested between her knees. Paul reached into the bag, and his fingers closed on a hard object. He pulled out a 9mm pistol.

  “Where did this come from?” he said with astonishment.

  “It was Dieter’s.”

  Paul looked back at the oncoming canoes, then at the cascading falls. He had little choice. Regardless of Francesca’s wishes that her former subjects not be hurt, they were between the devil and the deep blue sea. Arrows were flying in their direction.

  Paul plunged his hand into the bag again, looking for extra rounds. This time he came out with a GlobalStar satellite phone. Dieter must have used it to keep in touch with his buyers. He stared at it a moment before the significance of the find sank in. He yelled with joy.

  Gamay had moved closer and saw the phone. “Does that thing work?”

  He pushed the ready light, and the phone was on. “I’ll be damned.” Paul handed Gamay the phone. “Give it a try. I’ll see if I can scare those guys off.”

  Gamay punched a number out on the phone. Seconds later a familiar deep voice answered.

  “Kurt!” Gamay yelled into the phone. “It’s me.”

  “Gamay? We’ve been worried about you. Are you and Paul okay?”

  She glanced at the oncoming canoes and swallowed hard. “We’re in a hell of a mess, and that’s an understatement.” She had to shout over the roar of the falls. “Can’t talk, I’m calling on a GlobalStar. Can you get a fix on our position?”